A blur of bridal veil caught her attention as the music changed to a disco number. The guy on stage turned and bent, and then there was Gretchen, wearing a veil and shoving money into the dancer’s thong. A few other familiar faces were sandwiched near her, along with Daphne’s cringing twin, Audrey.
“There’s my sister,” Gretchen bellowed as Daphne approached. She flung her arms out for Daph, ignoring the stripper, who gyrated away to another group of calling women. “C’mere you!”
Daphne chuckled as Gretchen enveloped her into an overenthusiastic hug. “Already drunk, are we?”
“Juuuus’ haven’ fun,” Gretchen yelled in her ear. “Come sit by me!”
They sat down and Daphne squeezed in next to Gretchen. She slid off her jacket and glanced around. The tiny table was covered with drinks already, the women packed so close together that their thighs touched. Audrey was on the other side of Gretchen, a glass of water in front of her. “Pregnant again,” Gretchen bellowed as an explanation, then picked up her own fruity drink and chugged it. Across from her, Taylor, Chelsea, Brontë and Edie were slinging back their own drinks while Greer—heavily pregnant—typed into her phone.
Gretchen plucked an umbrella from her drink and put it behind Daphne’s ear. “You need to join the party, sis!”
“No, I’m good.” Daphne put her hands up, shaking her head. One of the things they’d talked about at rehab was avoiding all temptation. And while she’d been a hell of a lot more addicted to drugs than to booze, it was a slippery slope. She could just as easily get hooked to a new thing. That was how her personality worked—she went to extremes and she didn’t know when to stop. That was why Wesley was so hard on her—so she remained vigilant.
Tonight, however, didn’t seem to be about anything but partying. The girls laughed and drank, finishing one round and ordering another. Daphne requested a water with lime, and then the waiter spent several minutes trying to guilt her into doing shots with the others. Taylor spilled her drink all over the table, getting money and napkins sticky, and as a cherry slid toward Daphne, she was hit with the strong temptation to pick it up and just pop it into her mouth.
And she hated that it seemed so easy to do.
Then the shots arrived, and everyone clinked glasses except Daphne and the pregnant girls. The waiter winked and slipped a shot in Daphne’s direction, which filled her with even more despair. Why did everyone want her to drink? Couldn’t she have fun at a party without drinking? She found it hard to concentrate on the conversations, because between the strippers, the thumping music—some of which she was pretty sure was her own music—and the fact that the drinks were flying hard and fast? It was hard to concentrate. She found herself watching Gretchen raise her drink to her lips. She found herself watching every time Edie took a shot and grimaced at the taste. Her mouth watered when Taylor got another drink with those damn cherries.
She wanted a drink.
Her fingers itched for just one sip, her mouth felt like sawdust, and she craved one of those alcoholic treats with an intense yearning that surprised her. Just one drink wouldn’t hurt, right? Except when she reached for the shot that was sitting in front of her, she thought of Wesley and his fucking infernal carrot sticks and green tea.
Wesley would be so disappointed in her if she broke. If she relapsed.
A cold sweat broke out over her body. Gretchen laughed and shouted something in Daphne’s ear as the music changed, but the room got too claustrophobic for her. She shook her head and got to her feet, pushing away from the table. “I’m sorry. I can’t— I have to leave.”
“You okay?” Audrey shouted at her over the music.
Like she could say anything to Audrey? Audrey was always perfect. She always made the right decisions. Daphne nodded and shoved her way out. “Can’t stay,” she called back, but it was probably drowned out over peals of laughter and catcalls as another dancer headed their way.
Daphne burst out of the club a few moments later, and the chill of the New York City streets in December hit her like a wall. She rubbed her arms, realizing her coat was still inside. Didn’t matter. She’d buy a new one. She couldn’t go back in there. Not with all those drinks and everyone having fun and Daphne realizing she could never, ever do that again. Not if she wanted to stay sober.
The thought was so depressing she burst into tears. She pressed a hand to her forehead and wandered away a few feet, trying to get away from the surging, thumping music. People walked past her, ignoring her. Even the bouncer that had been so thrilled to meet her earlier was busy stamping hands and flirting. She was alone.
And she really, really wanted a drink, a cigarette, and a hit of some good nose candy. All together. Fuck.
She sobbed again and then swiped at her runny nose. God, she was such a mess. What was she going to do when Wesley left her? How long would she be strong without him? The thought made her even more melancholy and she continued weeping as she wrapped her arms tight around herself and walked toward the nearest subway station.
But when she turned the corner?
Wesley was there.
He was wearing a thick jacket, his running shoes, and a knowing look on his face. He pushed off of the wall he’d been leaning against and moved toward her, shrugging off his jacket and wrapping it around her.
“You were s-s-spying on me?” Daphne wept, swiping at her face.
He shook his head. “I just knew how it’d go. Thought I’d wait for you.”
That made her feel worse. He’d known she was going to break. “Dammit.” She shivered into his jacket. “I hate that you were right.”
“I hate that I was, too.” He put a comforting arm around her shoulders. “Come on. Why don’t we get a bite to eat?”
Oh god, that sounded too good to be true. She burrowed under his arm. “Pancakes?”
“No, but there’s a great little vegan place around the corner that stays open late and has some wonderful healthy choices.”
Typical Wesley. She didn’t even groan. She wasn’t surprised. And actually, it felt nice to know that no matter how much she crumbled, he was ironclad and unchanging. Wesley didn’t let her break.
By the time they were seated in the quiet little restaurant, Daphne’s tears had mostly turned to sniffles, and she had a cup of hot green tea in her hands. She was feeling more normal, too. She didn’t even protest when Wesley ordered tofu lettuce wraps and two cups of spiced lentil soup for both of them. It wasn’t pancakes, but that was okay, too.
Wesley didn’t drink his own tea. He just studied Daphne with a look that was so understanding that it made her ache. “Do you want to talk about it?”
She shook her head, but began to talk anyhow. “I . . . they were all drinking,” she said, and rubbed her face with one hand. “And at first it didn’t bother me, but then they just kept drinking and they were having so much fun and it was like . . . an itch under the skin. I kept watching them because I couldn’t drink, and the more that I wanted it, the easier it felt like it would be to break.”
“But you didn’t?”
“I didn’t,” she agreed, and was stupidly pleased when that small, rare smile returned to Wesley’s hard mouth. “I really, really fucking wanted to. And I knew if I stayed, I’d have just one drink. And that one drink would turn into two, and then ten, and then they’d be picking my plastered ass up off the floor at closing time and a month from now I’d be back in rehab.” She sighed and picked up her teacup and took a sip. Unsweetened, but the bitterness was kind of soothing. “I hate that I’m so weak.”
“It’s not that you’re weak,” Wesley corrected. He reached over and brushed his hand over hers. “It’s that you put yourself in a situation where it’d be impossible to remain strong. You were smart enough to realize it and got out of there. It’s not about being weak. It’s about avoiding the situations that make you feel as if you’ll fail.”
Was that why he was such a disciplined hard-ass? She kept still, because his hand was still on hers on the table, and she didn’t want to ruin that. It was rare for Wesley to touch her, and she hadn’t realized until now how much she’d been craving it. So she held her tea with her other hand and gave him a sad little smile. “When does it get easier?”
“Never. It never gets easier.” Again, his hand brushed over hers. “But you get stronger.”
That sounded . . . depressing. “At least I got to see my sisters.” Her phone buzzed in her pocket. “They’re probably upset I left early.”
“They’ll understand when you tell them why,” he said, and pulled away. He picked up his own tea and then glanced out the window at the snowy streets.
She looked outside, following his gaze. A restaurant across the way was covered with holiday decor, a menorah in one window and a Christmas tree in the other. “I’m sorry you had to spend your evening waiting for me.” Not that she was in the club long. Less than a half hour, she wagered.
He shrugged his big shoulders and gave the waitress a nod as she set the cups of soup down in front of them. “You’re my job, Daphne. Of course I’m going to be here for you. That’s what I do.”
Great. She just loved being reminded that she was his job. “Still, it’s the holidays. Maybe you should go home and visit your family for a few days? I’m probably just going to hole up and watch Christmas movies for a few days.” She certainly wouldn’t be heading out for any more parties. Not after tonight.
Wesley was silent. That was all right. Sometimes he was quiet. Daphne took another sip of her tea and then dug a spoon into her soup. It was thick and delicious and spicy. After tonight it felt more comforting than pancakes, and she took several bites of it before she realized Wesley was still silent, and still gazing out the window. “Wes?”
He looked over at her, and for some reason his eyes seemed darker than usual, full of shadows. “I’m not going to visit family.”
“No? Too much work to do?” she teased, knowing full well that she was his work. “Because you know, I’m sure I’ll be fine if you want to fly out for a day.”
The lines of his mouth thinned and he looked out the window again, and then back at her. “Did I ever tell you how I got into this line of work, Daphne?”
She frowned, stirring her soup with her spoon idly. “I thought you just liked working out and fitness and all that boring crap.”
“Heh.” He laughed, but there was no pleasure behind it. “No. That started afterward. When I was seventeen, I killed my brother.”
She froze in place. Silence fell. Daphne stared at him, not sure she’d heard him correctly. “You . . .”
He nodded slowly. “Killed my brother. Drunk driving. I was underage and a heavy drinker. My father was an alcoholic. Had been all his life. I learned to steal his beer, and then his whiskey. My older brother did, too. We’d ditch school to go drinking. That day, we stole a car from the school parking lot and went joyriding. I was driving and ran off the road into a lake at ninety miles an hour. The car flipped over and I got out because I didn’t buckle up. My brother did.” He stared out the window again. “Broke my leg in three places and my arm, but I lived. The court documents said that my blood alcohol was three times the legal limit. And it wasn’t even a heavy drinking day for me.”
She blinked, unsure what to do or say. “I . . . I’m sorry, Wesley.” God. That made her problems seem small in comparison. She mostly drank and got high because she was lonely or had self-esteem issues. She’d never . . . killed someone. She thought about Gretchen and Audrey, and mentally recoiled.
He nodded slowly and gazed down at his food. His spoon moved through his soup, but he wasn’t eating. “I was too old for juvy so I pleaded no contest and went to prison for two years. Manslaughter. I sobered up and learned about exercise. When I got out of that controlled environment, though, I immediately fell back into bad habits. It took another year and another car wreck”—He tapped at a faint scar on his brow that she’d noticed but had never asked about—“before it got through my head that I was going to die. So I went to rehab and embraced a strict lifestyle, because I owed my brother that much. My parents have never forgiven me for his death, though.”
Her mouth felt dry. She took another sip of tea. “I . . . I don’t know what to say, Wesley.”
“I’m not telling you so you can feel sorry for me, Daphne.” His mouth pulled up in one corner and he shrugged his big shoulders. “I’m telling you so you realize that I understand what you’re going through. If I seem hard on you, it’s because I’ve been there. If I seem unfair or unforgiving? It’s because I know what it’s like. So when I tell you that I know you’re not ready?” He reached out and tapped her hand. “I know you’re not ready. It’s not slagging on you. It’s me knowing you better than you know yourself.”
“I see. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry, Daph.” Wesley gave her another exasperated look. “If I wanted pity, I’d wear a sign asking for pity. We all make choices. Not all of them are good. It’s how you recover that shows what kind of person you are. My life was in the toilet, so I chose a different path. My parents can’t forgive me—that’s the way they’ve chosen to handle things. I can’t blame them. I chose the original path, and now I’m choosing a different one. And that’s why I want to help you. Because I’ve been there and I understand.”
She understood him a bit more now. It was why he always seemed so focused, so very driven. He had a past full of demons driving him. Daphne felt a surge of sympathy and affection for him. “Here I thought you were pushing greens on me all the time because you were a sadist.”
He snorted. “They’re good for you and they don’t lead you toward poor choices. It’s definitely not because I just like watching you eat carrots all day long.”
“No, you’d rather watch me eat bananas,” she said, taking the conversation back to a lighter note. “I have an amazing technique.”
And she was pleased when his ears pinked with a hint of a blush.
The conversation died as they tucked into their soup, but for some reason, hearing his terrible story made Daphne feel less alone, less like a failure. It was nice to know that no matter how much of a fuckup she was, Wesley understood her.
And maybe he wasn’t so perfect after all.
***
Gretchen: Oh my god. I am the worst sister ever.
Daphne: Good morning . . . ?
Gretchen: I only vaguely remember last night. There was a lot of alcohol, way too much baby oil, and a vague memory of you leaving and not coming back.
Gretchen: :(
Gretchen: Was it me? Am I that annoying to be around when drunk?
Gretchen: Did someone say something? Do I need to throw down the hammer?
Daphne: Ha—no, no one hurt my feelings. It was just me.
Gretchen: You’re sure?
Daphne: It was . . . hard being around all the drinks. I left so I could be strong.
Gretchen: Oh god. Did I think I was a terrible sister before? Because now I feel ten times worse.
Gretchen: You’re out of REHAB and I invited you to a bachelorette party!
Gretchen: I’m the worst. I’m so sorry!!
Daphne: It’s okay, really. And you had this planned for a long time. I thought it was sweet of you to invite me, regardless.
Gretchen: I just wanted to hang together, you know? We never get to anymore now that you’re all famous and shit.
Daphne: I would love to hang out with you more. I mean it. I’m in NYC for the next few months and I’ve been missing family. Will Audrey mind?
Gretchen: Don’t care if she does! I’d shamelessly invite you over to help me bake for tonight’s rehearsal dinner but I suppose that would be too much to ask. . . .
Daphne: You’re right, that was pretty shameless. :)
Gretchen:
I fired the bakers so I’m going to be nonstop in the kitchen for the next 10 hours, god help me.
Daphne: Aw. All right, I’ll be over there in about an hour or so?
Gretchen: You’re the best. And bonus: I know you won’t eat the stuff while we bake because that sexy trainer of yours is a slave driver!
Daphne: Har de har.
***
A drill screeched overhead as Daphne tried to ice a red velvet cupcake, startling her and causing her to nearly drop the bag of frosting in her hands.
“Oh my god,” Gretchen shrieked, her voice growing louder with each word. She shook a spatula at the ceiling. “I’m going to straight-up murder those jerks if they aren’t done by tomorrow!”
“What is all that noise for anyhow?” Daphne asked, leaning over one of the cupcakes to carefully pipe a swirl of frosting onto it. She was in charge of decorations, since Gretchen had declared her “assistance” with the actual baking to be more trouble than anything else. She didn’t mind—it was fun to just sit in the big kitchen and ice cupcakes, and a bûche de Noël, and more of the croquembouches and sugar cookie trees. Since it was Christmas and Gretchen loved to bake, she was loading her guests up with sweets instead of a sit-down dinner. And while Daphne had been tempted at the pudding-filled eggnog cupcakes, she hadn’t eaten a bite of the forbidden treats. Last night’s close call had been enough for her. She couldn’t stop thinking of Wesley and his depressing story—no wonder he was so devoted to his work. He didn’t have anything else. That made her sad for him—didn’t he have anyone in the world that cared about him?